


The Reanimation of Victor Frankenstein

by SillyStarflakes



Category: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Genre: Diary/Journal, Domestic Themes, Georgian Period, It's About the Profound Longing, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, POV First Person, Pining, Pining Henry, They're both soft for each other, Victor Frankenstein is Definitely a Twink, When Henry says Friend he means "Friend"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:40:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29477124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SillyStarflakes/pseuds/SillyStarflakes
Summary: Henry writes about taking care of Victor when he's ill. He's not the best at it but I think we, including Victor, know he's trying.
Relationships: Henry Clerval/Victor Frankenstein
Comments: 10
Kudos: 21





	The Reanimation of Victor Frankenstein

**Author's Note:**

> This was just a little writing exercise I had to do for school, and I thought, damn, high time I vent through some Georgian era longing. I'm only on chapter seven in the book, if the lads seem out of character just know I wrote them solely based on that early characterization and interpretation on my part. Hope you enjoy this mini-fic!

On this day of November, I find myself ridden with a profound effect of melancholy.

I have undertaken the gentle and scrutinous care of my dearest Frankenstein, who finds that my desired services towards him are rather putting off. He has found that his agenda must be driven by profound intensities that certainly must consume him, though he has yet to divulge any of these to myself. Though I suspect he knows me well enough- which I should certainly hope!- to have assuredness of my unrelenting nature. He will grumble and mope yet succumb to naturalistic needs at my request now- which is an incredible step forward from his previously being a professional recluse…

My dear Victor, what is it that ails you? Some part of me is almost jealous of this evil, lurking shadow to have honed your attention so. We have so much to discuss, yet I only reach you while you are plagued by an awful sickness of dread. I can only hope you will loosen enough to let me try to heal you.

He and I shared in a stroll out in the streets this afternoon. I was rather ecstatic to finally receive acceptance to my invitations, though poor Victor looked his part as soon as he stepped outside. If I had lost him in a crowd during our excursion I would have simply needed to ask if anyone had seen a figure who looked as if he had missed his funeral that morning. A thin, ghostly, young man dressed in dark to match the hollow shadow under his tired eyes. I had cursed the timing of this whole ordeal, happening during the months of dreary clouds and cold to grip him to the bone when June sunshine could have treated him so much better.

It must have been no other than God listening at that time, for of course soon after I had come to terms with my displeased feelings towards the natural order, we were then caught in quite the torrential drizzle. I would have sent a bitter thanks to Him if I had not thought it would amount to some petty improvement to our situation.

And as for Victor, I could barely contain my overwhelming shame for bringing my poor, sickly friend into it.

We had run -rather unstylishly- like two young boys fleeing some scuffle, slipping and tripping on the sleek street- and to my utter humiliation- taking several wrong turns along the road back. By the time we returned we were just about sopping wet, tired, and chilled. My entire plan to make this outing a healthy and helpful improvement for this poor, haunted man- utterly ruined.

I had turned to him to offer what apology I could that would sorrowfully fall short of what I felt, until I saw just about the only thing that could have made me feel worse, and by God was it by an infinitely exponential amount.

Victor's thin frame was curled in on itself, shaking- the poor thing- from cold or quiet, concealed, sobs? I was petrified for a passing moment that saying or doing anything might worsen the disaster I had already caused, until I found my body moving towards him beyond my conscious consent. Something brutish inside of me decreeing that image of my dearest companion not be one where I am not at his side.

In approaching him I was revealed something crucial that would contribute to a sense of utter relief upon instinct, and shock upon further thought...and it was that I had not seen Victor Frankenstein smile, or- perish the thought!- laugh the entire time we had been reunited.

Yet here in the better light was my dearest friend trying and failing to conceal his giggles- of all things! Dripping wet onto the floor, shivering, and acting like some immature school boy in the midst of sharing some lewd quip, yet my simple heart could not help but fill to a warm brim at the sight of life returning to the corpse I had seen that morning, reanimated into the man whom I had known all my life.

I can only hope to say that I was witness to, -or if it would fit my ego- perhaps indirectly predisposed the return of some miniscule vitality in his eyes which had not been there for months. As after that endeavor he surprisingly seemed to have enough energy for my regular teatime as well. There, still rather dumbfounded, I inquired as to whether he would like to make a routine of it all, maybe not daily as I know it was hard for him to work himself up to it, but certainly weekly, -and certainly without such a threat of pneumonia- and that it would certainly do us both a great amount of good. He remained quiet for a few moments after my words, a ghost of that previous disposition still gently playing at his lips, and in that moment of my dear friend’s lively essence still simmering at the surface, all I felt was right was to drink in the sight of it and commit it to memory.

I must say- rather selfishly- that I had wished for him to stay quiet, so nothing would put an end to the moment. It felt precious- private, even. I felt my selfish heart snake around the picture of it and constrict.

Victor seemed to indulge me, caressing his warm cup to put some life into those chilled fingers, and relapsing into his own thoughtful silence. Within me I recognized a small, rather negligible sense of abandon at this. How I still wished for him to include me in that brilliant mind of his, even to indulge in naivety once more, scheme like we did as children.

After a good while of being in one another's comfortable company, he then informed me that he should very much like to take a walk with me again with or without the threat of pneumonia, and after finishing his tea- where I noticed he was quite the striking young lad with some color put back in his cheeks and lips- he remarked that he regrettably was at about the end of his energy reserves for the day and wished to retire.

The traitorous heart of mine seemed to squirm in malcontent, fishing up internal monologuing that could torment me about how I kept the poor man from the restful atmosphere which he sorely required -or anything else I could have possibly done wrong up until that moment. Until my friend called upon me once more. Victor held my eyeline in a way that had stolen my full attention, with a look of knowing already exactly where I was- as I forget that to presume to know him so very well from the starting point of youth, why should he not know the same, if not more, from me!- and he softly thanked me with a gentleness of tone and fondness of implication that I presume may have only been shared between the likes of ourselves. 

As I scribble this down into text, I endeavor to try to do these events justice as the expressions replay behind my eyelids again and again. I feel myself more as the humble artist repainting images of a transcendent muse, which I am rather dazed out of sorts from the comfort I receive from the notion. Though I feel a responsibility to record this man as one should record a Divine plan, what I believe sets me apart from such a records keeper is that I do not feel so inclined to share.

I find myself feeling selfish once again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Something about profound repressed longing in classic literature hits right :)  
> *blows a kiss to Mary S. in gothic heaven* Nice work babe!!


End file.
